Reynevan, meanwhile, was the first to notice that fresh forces had entered the fray, perhaps because he was on his hands and knees when he observed the grass suddenly lie down flat on the ground, as though struck by a hurricane. He looked up to see, about twenty paces away, a man of gigantic stature. His hair was milk-white like an old man’s, but his eyes flashed with fire. The old man was holding a staff, strange, gnarled and crooked, like a snake frozen in paroxysms of agony.

“Get down!” the old man thundered. “And stay down!”

As Reynevan flattened himself on the ground, he felt a strange gale whistling over his head. He heard Scharley utter a stifled curse, followed by the sudden piercing squeal of the bats which had up until then been attacking in complete silence. The squeal was silenced as suddenly as it had begun. Reynevan heard and felt a hail of objects falling around him, thudding on the ground like ripe apples. He also felt a finer shower of tiny, dry things. He looked around. Dead bats were lying everywhere and an unceasing deluge of dead insects was falling from the branches of trees above.

“Matavermis…” he gasped. “That was Matavermis…”

“Well, well,” said the old man. “A scholar! Young, but knowledgeable. You can get up now.”

At second glance, the old man wasn’t old at all. Although no youngster, either, Reynevan had no doubt that the white rime of his hair was less a sign of old age and more of the albinism that frequently occurred among mages. His great height also turned out to be a magically evoked effect, since the white-haired man resting on his staff was tall, but by no means unnaturally so.

Scharley approached, wading indifferently through the lifeless bats lying in the grass. Samson led the horses over. The white-haired man observed them for a moment—Samson in particular.

“Three men,” he said. “Interesting. We were looking for two.”

Reynevan found out why he had used the plural before he could ask. Hooves thudded and the clearing was full of snorting horses.

“Greetings,” called down Notker of Weyrach. “So, we meet. What a stroke of luck.”

“A stroke of luck indeed,” repeated Buko of Krossig, pushing his horse slightly against the penitent, with similar scorn in his voice. “Especially since it’s quite a different place than we’d planned!”

“You’re unreliable, Master Scharley,” added Tassilo of Tresckow, lifting his hounskull. “You don’t keep your word. Which is disgraceful.”

“But he hasn’t escaped punishment, I see,” snorted Kuno of Wittram. “By the staff of Saint Gregory the Miracle-Worker! Just look how his ears have been nipped!”

“We ought to get out of here.” The white-haired man interrupted the scene playing out in front of the astonished Reynevan. “The horsemen draw near. They are on our trail!”